


Through my hands, I see me too.

by Katitty



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Lightwood loves himself, DRABBLE DRABBLE DRABBLE, Drabble, Drabble drabble, Internalized Homophobia, International Fanworks Day, International Fanworks Day 2017, M/M, Self-Doubt, There's mentions of Jace too, background izzy, background jace, background-ish Magnus, but kinda a lot of cares, i was nice, mentions of - Freeform, soft Alec give 0 cares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:26:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9770276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katitty/pseuds/Katitty
Summary: Alexander Lightwood has scars. For once, please, let him love some of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Malec Trash Squad](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Malec+Trash+Squad).



> Feel free to correct any problems with this. It's not Beta'd

Alec wonders how the world see him. Do they see a tall man, a strong soldier or a scarred and pale gay man?

Alec Lightwood bares many scars.

His back, his chest, his legs, his arms, his chin. Head to toe, top to bottom, inside out and wrong side up. 

He lost count at 12 but he's sure he still beats Jace, which used to make him proud. He stares at himself for hours sometimes, wondering if Jace see flaws or glory on his skin, the way Alec sees success and defeat on his. 

The blister scars on his biceps from too tight leather pushing and pulling his already worn down skin made his stomach churn, but the dent on his right ear from his first fight ever, well, his first real fight ever, brings fireworks of pride into his chest, still exploding against his ribs like the first time he saw it. Still fresh and new to him every time he remembers the feeling of the demons talon nicking him just as it exploded before him. Still makes him beam when he remembers his dad standing tall in the infirmary while all the other teens groaned in pain. "That's my son," his dad had said to the Clave members who had come to inspect the young, new warriors, "a true Lightwood." 

He wonders if Jace feels that way about his first scar. He remembers Robert smiling down at Jace that day too, his hand moving to rest against his Parabatai's blood stained hair. "You got a nice one there, Son."

Does Izzy cringe when she sees the marks that cover her body? Or does she stand so high because she's proud of them? Is she holding herself above them? Or showing them off? 

He wonders for hours, but he knows he doesn't want to hear the answer. Either way he knows he'll feel disappointment.

He hates the marks on his back the most, the ones he can't see well enough to heal, the ones that are stubborn and filled with Jace's guilty sighs because "I should have had you covered. That's my job." 

His chest is better, he's less ashamed. It's covered in cuts he can see, can heal properly. More soft pale white markings than scars, just dustings of scratches that catch the light every so often. He's proud of them too. Some of them are shaped like runes, from when Izzy was young and just wanted to try. He's proud of those the most. 

His knuckles aren't really knuckles anymore, the back of his hands are sometimes covered in quick access runes, but his hands stay hidden behind his back most of the time anyways, so he's not too phased by them. He doesn't care for them at all, really. It's his palms that he examines daily. His palms with slits and cuts crisscrossing in all ways, some so deep he's sure his fingers will fall off. He wonders if Jace and Izzy's hands get like this, if they break down so easily even after years and years of swinging weapons and blocking playful punches. Or if perhaps it's just him. 

Him and his bow. Pushing and pulling and releasing and protecting until his palms are sore and bloody and barely useable. His left holding arrow tracks so deep he can see tissue, his right with bloody fingers and callouses so hard he's sure they could break glass. Do Jace and Izzy have marks from their weapons? Do they leave those marks last, lett them heal themselves until their hands are needed again? Do they push through the blood and the pain of saving lives to heal others? 

Alec, standing before Magnus Banes full length mirror, raises his hands, holds them in front of his face, and studies. 

These are what Magnus holds while they walk. These are what Jace high fives when they train. These are the hands that Clave members shake when they arrive at the Institute. He wonders what they think when they feel these hands against their own. Are they disgusted? Are they curious? Do they think of him as a warrior? 

He frowns. He doesn't really care what they think, not of his hands at least. These are his hands. They pull bows and shoot arrows and punch vampires and kill demons and they're his. Alexander Lightwood's hands, in a very specific way. He's proud of these hands. 

His hands hold Magnus Banes heart. They caress something so beautiful, so heavy with kindness. Sometimes he's scared that his frail hands will break from the weight of his love. 

These hands command warriors and lead teams into battle. Break noses for his sister and protect his brothers. 

He examines his scars more closely, because they really are quite beautiful. He traces the small bumps and pushes against the longest scar, twists his hands to watch them cast their own shadows under the bathroom light and thinks about Magnus tracing these scars on the very rare mornings where Alec finds himself the big spoon. 

He wonders what Magnus thinks of Alec's hands, wonders if he trusts them the way Alec trusts the electric magic that runs through his Warlocks unmarked fingertips. Wonders his Magnus is afraid of Alec's hands giving into the weight of the world, or if he believes that they can take the pressure. 

His hands fall down, and he catches a look at his face in the mirror. He thinks he sees his soul. 

A worn down man looks back at him, years of self hatred and repression stare back at him. He hears Magnus's whispers from the first night they spoke about the way Alec treats himself, the way Magnus treats himself. "That feeling you have, that pain and anger you feel, that's hate. I know that feeling, I feel it too, sometimes." Alec had carded his hands through Magnus's hair, whispering back that he didn't hate himself. What an absurd thing to assume. "No," Magnus whispered back, "you're proud of yourself and you believe you're strong and unbreakable. But if Jace confronted you about being gay, would you be proud to say you are? No. You wouldn't. Your stomach would twist and your chest would get tight and you would despise very fibre in your being and that's hate, Alexander. Internalised homophobia at its finest."

His face contorts as he lets that memory run though his mind. He'd kissed away Magnus's insecurities that night, and cried on the way home because the part of himself that he found disgusting had nothing to do with what was on the outside. He avoided Magnus for three days after that. 

He looks harder at the man staring back at him, looks past the pain and the suffering and thinks he sees what others do. Not a warrior, not the head of the New York Institute. No. Hes Alec Lightwood. The gay warrior. The gay firstborn Lightwood son, filling in as head of the Institute. 

He glances back down at his hands. He sees the marks his bow and arrows have left. 

He feels no shame.

**Author's Note:**

> @ me on twitter how bout that? 
> 
>  
> 
> (@mattdaddtrash just because)


End file.
